


CROCODILE

by littlefrog1025



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Dark, Flashbacks, Heavy Angst, Lowcountry, M/M, Mystery, North Carolina, POV Bucky Barnes, Parent Bucky Barnes, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Summer, Thriller, Twincest, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, Writer Bucky Barnes, divorced bucky barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-04 03:56:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12161058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlefrog1025/pseuds/littlefrog1025
Summary: Sometimes the past you mourn returns. And sometimes trouble tags along, refusing to leave until it's broken you again...or,James Barnes spends the summer back home in North Carolina with friends, running into the love that left him so many years ago. James hopes to rekindle the intense passion he and Steve once had, but Steve's violently possessive twin makes it her mission to not only destroy their reunion, but James as well.





	CROCODILE

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This fic is going to be DARK. Like daaaark. To give you a better idea of the direction this is going to take, the influences for this fic include the books/films: GONE GIRL, THE DREAMERS (terrible movie; don’t bother), THE HOUSE OF YES, BRIDESHEAD REVISITED, and SHAME.
> 
> And given this fic is a mystery/thriller told in both present day and flashbacks NOT everything will be revealed at once within the plot and with tags. So tags will adjust as the story progresses in order to avoid spoilers.
> 
> However, I will reveal that this fic contains TWINCEST; which is not something I normally don’t write, or condone, but it is prevalent and pertinent to this particular story. So, you’ve been told.
> 
> I hope even with all that you continue on this shadowy and sinister journey with me, but if it’s too much and you feel the need to bow out— I get it.
> 
> Enjoy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interruption and disruption tend to go hand in hand.

(2017)

“How does an airport smell like an ocean spray and a tar pit of ass,” Scott grimaces, making James chuckle.

“Welcome to Wilmington, North Carolina,” he says.

“I already regret leaving New York,” Scott continues, grabbing his simple black bags.

“You’re such a shitty, a-typical New Yorker,” Wanda teases. She’s already prepared for the subtropical weather in a colorful sarong that ends at her ankles and a big, floppy sunhat atop her wavy locks. “One minute outside of Brooklyn and you’re panicking.”

“I just don’t get why anyone would ever leave New York is all,” Scott tries to argue.

James helps Wanda heave her thousand dollar “Esmeralda” luggage from the baggage claim. “Have you been in New York during the summer? The whole city smells like hot piss.”

“And now we’re in North Carolina where the airports smell like saltwater and methane.”

“Are you going to be like this all summer,” James asks.

“Yes. Possibly all winter, too. Fall is when I pupa, denying the world of my precious awesomeness.”

“More like sparing the masses your bullshit,” Wanda says, digging in her purse, successfully retrieving her chapstick.

“Why aren’t we married?”

Wanda coats her thin lips in ‘Pink Lemonade’. “Because I have self-respect.”

James laughs, finally grabbing his own luggage from the conveyor belt. None of it matches. He’s got two wheeled uprights that are two different sizes and two different colors, a really nice leather travel bag that looks brand new, a Jansport bookbag that’s seen better days, and an Army duffel with his last name, “BARNES,” scrawled in faded black maker along the front of it. He’s not man of limited possessions, but one not filled with the need to replace things that don’t necessary need replacing. “Let’s go. You guys obviously need a drink.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Scott declares. And for all his bitchy, self-centered quipping, he still manages to be a gentleman, grabbing two of Wanda’s bags along with his own as they make their way to the exit.

***

Wanda rides shotgun in James’ rental car. “Jesus, James...”

She pulls her sunglasses from her face as they oblige up the private driveway to a 3-story, lowcountry beach house. It’s gorgeous; tons of windows, wrap around, screened in porches on the ground level and second floor, tall ceilings, shutters, two chimneys, and a widow’s walk.

Scott openly gapes as well. “Dude, when you said you bought a beach house, I was thinking, like a cottage or something, but…fuck.”

James parks before the elaborate house. “Go big or go home, right?” He hops out of the car. Scott and Wanda follow suit. He pops the trunk as his friends continue to marvel at the house.

The sun is bright and high and hot. Scott forgot his sunglasses on the plane. He shields his eyes with his hand as he looks upward; trying to take in all three stories of the place he’ll be crashing at for the summer. “I’m not saying leaving New York is ever a good idea, but if you’re going to do it, I guess you should do it here.”

James smirks. He knew the house itself would curb some of Scott’s complaining. “Scottie. Think fast.” James tosses him the keys to the front door.

Wanda immediately snatches them from him and excitedly opens the door, running inside. Scott chases behind her.

James grabs all of Wanda’s bags first. She’s got a 5 piece collection of expensive, aqua blue luggage that’s classy and feminine, like her. He knows she bought them specifically for this trip, and he oddly enough can’t help but be flattered by that fact.

He manages all 5 pieces on both arms and carries them to the open door, past the threshold, without so much as a sweat breaking.  
He leaves them in the foyer, listening to Scott and Wanda’s heavy footfalls on the hardwood floors. They exclaim at everything, from the 6 bedrooms, to the barbecue grill on the second floor, to the firepit and the dock out back leading to the ocean. They’re like little kids at a hotel. Wanda’s right, New York has a tendency to box you in and make you forget other parts of the world exist until immersed in it against your will.

She trots downstairs barefoot. “I fucking love you.” She pecks his cheek. “I can’t believe I was going to stay in New York for the summer, moping around until my kids came back.”

“Ah, you know I wouldn’t let that happen.”

“And thank god you didn’t. Thanks for bringing in my bags. Which room is mine?”

He thinks, “Second door on the left. You mind sharing with Natasha?”

“No. And even if I did I wouldn’t complain.” She winks at him. “It’ll be fun. Like a sleepover. Better than sharing a room with Scott. His snoring should be classified as a hate crime.”

“Which is why he has his own room at the end of the hall on the right. And far away from me. Need help with your bags?”

She shakes her head. “You’ve already been enough of a gentleman today. I got it. Want me to tell Scott which room is his?”

“Yeah. I’ll get the rest of the bags.”

“Then are we drinking?”

“Absolutely.”

She manages to fist pump as she drags her suitcase up the stairs.

James heads out the front door as a white Aston Martin V12 Vantage Roadster pulls up behind his rented Jeep Grand Cherokee. It’s an awe-worthy sports car, but the obnoxious driver behind the wheel makes James admire it far less than it should be admired.

“Barnes!”

James has no idea why he invited his agent to spend the summer with he and his friends. He doesn’t hate him, but doesn’t particularly like him.

“Hey, Tony,” he says, already feeling exhausted by Tony’s animated personality.

“That’s the car you rented? Like, you chose this one,” Tony snickers. Its 95 degrees out but Tony Stark is wearing a custom-made, double-breasted suit. Between the car and the suit, James knows he’s showing off. As usual.

“It gets me from point A to point B. Which is the fundamental job of any car.”

“I know, but…its a little soccer mom-ish, isn’t it?”

James grabs all of Scott’s bags. “I wouldn’t know what soccer moms drive, Tony.”

“This. They drive this. Jeep Grand Cherokees.”

Now he remembers why he invited Tony: pity. Plain and simple. He caught Tony at a bad time, walking into his office after he’d just gotten off the phone with his ex, Loki. Tony’s eyes were filled with tears after listening to Loki tell him why they were so wrong for each other and needed to end their tumultuous relationship.

James knew Tony had been trying, really trying, to make things better between he and Loki, but it wasn’t enough. And truth be told, from what little James did know about Tony and Loki, his efforts would never be met with the appreciation they deserved. They were far too volatile and hurtful to one another for any substance to grow between them. Their relationship was superficial, no matter how much depth they tried to give it.

Tony was nonetheless devastated, sitting there, staring blankly at the wall, until he remembered he and Loki were supposed to spend the summer in Italy. They were supposed to go to Rome. Loki had never been and Tony was eager to show him around.

And that’s when sympathy became an invitation that James is already regretting.

“Well, next time I’m feeling inadequate about the size of my cock and getting older, I’ll rent something flashy. Like an Aston Martin.”

“That hurt, Barnes. Right in the chest.”

Tony’s joking but James doesn’t care. It feels good being a dick to Tony.

“You carrying my bags into the house, too, you southern gentleman you?” Tony removes his sunglasses and exaggeratedly bats his eyelashes.

James pulls his own luggage from the trunk. “Nope. Not carrying Scott’s either. Just getting all the stuff out of the car.”

“Bet you carried Wanda’s bags,” Tony fake pouts.

“I did.” He slams the trunk shut. He wasn’t kidding. He leaves Scott’s stuff by the car and hoists his own into the house just as Scott comes outside. “Your bags are by the car.”

Scott looks genuinely puzzled. “You weren’t going to bring them in?”

James rolls his eyes.

“You carried Wanda’s bags inside,” Scott grumbles.

James shakes his head. “Jesus. I should’ve made you and Tony share a room instead.”

God, he really could use that drink now.

***

“Well…this establishment is…interesting,” Tony says, sounding ever so much like the elite snob he’s pretending he isn’t. He changed into more casual clothes: $200 blue jeans and a fifty dollar vintage band tee, but he looks far less pretentious now than he did an hour ago.

“If you don’t like it you don’t have to drink with us,” James tells him.

“The menus are plastic,” Tony complains.

James and Wanda snicker at the seriousness in his tone. They’re on the patio at a Joe’s Crab Shack; a kitschy, nautical-themed seafood joint where the servers wear Hawaiian shirts and sneakers.

“If it’s good enough for the natives than its good enough for you, Stark,” Scott—of all people—tells their agent. “Ooh! Five dollar pitchers of Bud until seven. You guys down?”

Tony slams his menu on the table. “I’m sorry, a _pitcher_?”

James should be annoyed, but Tony’s stuck up outrage is funny to him.

“Yes, Tony, a pitcher of beer. Jesus, it’s like you never went to college and have no concept of Happy Hour,” Wanda scoffs.

“Of course I went to college, Wanda. It’s just when I went, I was only fifteen years old and not legally allowed to drink, so forgive me if certain rites of passage, like gurgling pitchers of cheap swill at sea shanty dining ‘restaurants’ were missed during my coming-of-age.”

Wanda turns to James. “Why did you invite him?”

James chuckles. “For these moments.”

She slaps his arm with her menu.

“What’s a ‘sampler’,” Tony asks, frowning at his menu. He’s serious.

“I hate you so much,” Wanda tells him. She’s serious.

_“You talking to Banes? Because I wouldn’t be surprised if you were.”_

James turns to the voice behind him. Sam. With Natasha and Clint beside him. James breaks from his seat, smiling big and stupid, happily hugging each of them.

Sam playfully slaps his cheek. “You got some dirt on your face.”

“It’s called a ‘beard’, you asshole.”

“Beard, huh? Thought were ‘out’ and done with that whole charade,” Natasha teases.

Clint pats James’ shoulder. “Lay off, Jimmy. He’s saving himself for me.”

“Can’t believe I missed you fucking trolls,” James laughs. “Idiots, this middle-aged Richie Rich is my agent, Tony Stark—”

“’ _Middle-aged_ ’,” Tony dithers, as though he isn’t.

“And these two kids are my writing pals, Scott Lang and Wanda Maximoff. Scott, Wanda, the idiots: Sam Wilson, Natasha Romanov, and Clint Barton,” James introduces.

Sam, Natasha, and Clint take a seat at the empty chairs around the table as they shake hands with Tony, Wanda, and Scott.

“Seems you and I are the only ladies this summer. So glad we’re sharing a room,” Wanda says to Natasha.

“Me, too. I told Barnes if he didn’t invite at least one other vagina on this vacation I’d kill him.”

Wanda laughs. “Oh, we are definitely going to enjoy each other over the next 3 months.”

“As long as you don’t snore and listen to Taylor Swift we’ll be good.”

“I think we’ll be just fine.”

The two women engage in a quick, complicated handshake that ends with a hair flip.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Oh, Lord. They have their own handshake already…”

Clint lights up a cigarette. “So what are we doing? Happy Hour? They got beer pitchers?”

James steals a cigarette from Clint’s pack. “Yeah. We’re just waiting for Tony to figure out what a sampler is though.” He chuckles as he lights up.

Tony glares at his client. “I know what a sampler is,” he lies, not wanting to be embarrassed in front of strangers, James’ friends.

James just smirks, refusing to bust Tony in front of everyone. There’s poking fun and then there’s humiliation. James isn’t that much of a dick. Even to Tony.

“So, are you guys going to regale us with embarrassing stories about your former staff sergeant, Mr. James Buchanan Barnes” Scott asks while trying to flag down their server as politely as one can waving at someone from across a room.

“Oh, we got embarrassing stories out the wazoo, baby.’” Sam winks at James with a teasing smirk on his face.

James flicks ash from his Camel cigarette onto the ground. “Jesus…” He smiles, remembering all the stupid things he used to get up to, mostly when he was drunk out of his skull. He knows he should be embarrassed about the shenanigans and downward spiral that was his life 10 years ago, but truth be told, he was a pretty good drunk.

James was the “life of the party” type of alcoholic. Good times to be had and good times only being had. He drank to forget, to drown the out the loud, crowded noises in his head, to ease the loneliness and make reality a blur, to avoid, pushing down deep the tremors under his skin and the rattling in his whiskey-soaked bones. Weeping into his shaky hands, tucked in a corner, was never his style; too pathetic an avenue he didn’t dare walk down. Letting sadness in, meant weakness, and felt entirely too open and raw, like a nerve. Like the cut flesh of an open wound on a limb.

And it left little to no room for cover.

No one notices the fun guy at the party losing his shit. He hides it under loud laughs, gags and stunts. In off-color jokes, flirty banter, and bar brawls defending the honor of the offended.

Yeah. James was a good drunk, he thinks.

“But all that was years ago,” Sam adds. “We’re different people now.” His eyes stay on James, telegraphing the unspoken: _“It’s none of their businesses who we used to be.”_

Sam’s right. It’s all ancient history. From a world they no longer live in and one James wouldn’t recognize if dropped right in the middle of. Because he mostly remembers the façade, the mask he wore, the one that let him hide. The disguise that told him no one can see and made him feel so, so clever.

Yet, every so often there are still thick memories of that world that pour over him, suffocate him like he’s covered in tar. They snap him awake in the night and whisper in his ear. They flood his throat with bile he vomits into the toilet when he imagines blown-off limbs and the charred smell of burned bodies.

Maybe he wasn’t such a good drunk….

“You don’t want to hear any old stories. You’d hate yourself for knowing me,” James jokes. Sort of.

He drops the butt of his cigarette onto the concrete, stomping it out under his flip flop, when Scott’s arm-waving finally brings the waitress over.

***

It’s been a week and everyone’s getting along like a house on fire. James has to admit he’s surprised. Sam, Natasha, and Clint are his “brothers in arms,” serving together in the very squad he commanded. And Wanda and Scott are literary elites born and raised in New York City. Two different schools of friends he’s met during two different parts of his life:

His squad he knew while young, eager, and bold. Then scared, damaged, and lost.

And here, 11 years later, he calls Wanda Maximoff—mother of two, divorced YA novel queen—a dear friend, along with Scott Lang, humorist and satirist and comedian. Then there’s, Tony Stark: lonely billionaire publisher who reps struggling writers for kicks.

Worlds apart, yet in the same room none of them would no any difference.

“Scott, is this all the booze you bought? I can finish this in an hour,” Tony complains, sifting through the canvas bags of groceries in the kitchen.

“We don’t need that much liquor, Tony.”

“We most certainly do! Not only do I plan on drinking until I blackout, but its Clint’s Birthday BBQ Extravaganza, so we need to be liquored up and liquored up properly, dammit!”

“I bought enough, Tony, okay? There’s plenty here for those of us that drink,” Scott says, mumbling that last part.

Scott’s father was a violent drunk whose drink of choice was a 12-pack of Rolling Rock twice a day, and now he’s living amongst two alcoholics in recovery and one currently whining about not be stocked up enough to his liking. But this isn’t an isolated incident however. Scott tries to be “careful” around James a lot since they’ve become friends, and he’s doubled his efforts since Sam revealed his own issues with alcoholism that first night.

James spots cans of Pepsi and ginger ale in the bags. He smiles at the consideration; it’s all he and Sam have been drinking for the last 7 days.

“Give me the keys. I’m going to get more booze. Especially more wine than this six dollar bottle of fucking merlot you so boldly waltzed in here with.” Tony reaches across the island to snatch the keys from Scott’s pocket, but James beats him to it.

“I’ll get more beer. And some wine. Okay? No need for my best girls to carry on fighting like this,” he teases.

“No one wins when you think you’re funny, Barnes,” Tony tells him.

“James—”

“It’s alright, Scott. I’ll go to grocery store, get more alcohol, bring it back and let Tony drink himself into a stupor until he’s quiet and still and we don’t have to listen to the sound of his voice anymore. Win-win.”

Scott laughs at him poking fun of Tony. There’s something prideful in making someone whose business is comedy, laugh from the gut like that.

“Your jokes are as stale as day-old bread,” Tony quips back. “Don’t come back here unless you have at least four bottles of Malbec.” Tony slips on his sunglasses, turns on his heel, and disappears onto the patio where the girls are sunbathing topless.

“ _Six_ bottles of Malbec?”

“To be fair, Nat drinks it, too. It’s her favorite wine. Sometimes Tony’s a considerate human being,” James says. He grabs two empty shopping bags. “Half-hour. Tell Sam to fire up the grill.”

“Hey, James.”

He stops. Sunglasses on his nose and keys in his fist.

“I was just trying to… I wasn’t…”

“I know, Scott. Thanks.”

Scott nods.

“Need anything?”

“If you come across a sale on muzzles, don’t hesitate to get one for Tony.”

James snorts. “They make ‘em that big?”

Scott laughs again, and James gives himself a mental pat on the back as he trots out the front door.

***

Jesus Christ. James hasn’t been inside a Piggly Wiggly in god knows how long. There’s nothing specifically special about it. It’s like any other grocery store, but the nostalgia of it… It reminds him that he’s home. Here, in the south. In Wilmington, North Carolina, just 3 hours southeast of Durham where he grew up…

He stops a friendly stock boy to ask where the liquor aisle is. The buck-tooth young man with thin, brown hair points to the back of the store at the left side. James snags a basket and heads that way. He crosses through the produce section, avoiding an old woman with a wobbling buggy and a mother scolding her misbehaving son who picks at the unwashed grapes on display.

He’s no less than 3 feet from shelves of wine, beer, and whiskey when he stops. Turns his head just so, just enough to look back and know if he were seeing things. People rather... A person. That maybe isn’t there.

But no, his mind isn’t playing tricks on him. And this isn’t a dream.

As plain as day, squeezing ripe tomatoes without a care in the world is him. Is _Steve_.

Steve Rogers.

Steven Grant Rogers.

Steve. Fucking. Rogers…

The air is suddenly thin. A cold sweat breaks all over James’ body. His fists clench into pale, white knuckles. And there’s a blaze, a red hot burning that boils in the pit of his belly and travels up to his chest, heating his whole core. It tastes of ash in his mouth and blossoms into tinder at the base of his skull.

His sneakers move quick and silent along the bright, clean linoleum toward the tow-headed man in front of him.

He’s close enough to touch.

To strangle.

He yanks the headphones from the oblivious man’s ears and…stares. Stares him down with every violent thought in his head, pulsing through his blue-grey eyes. Because he can’t open his mouth; it’s full of words that feel like drying cement. Like glue.

Steve gapes back at him. His lips parted, catching flies as cerulean eyes, as wide as the ocean, stare back, surprised and a little terrified. He swallows thickly, throat dry where James’ full and tacky. “Buck—” he starts, voice hoarse and nervous, but James has suddenly dragged him away by his shirt, headphones skidding across the floor as he yanks Steve viciously through Piggly Wiggly patrons. “Buck—” he tries again, but James pushes him through a freezer strip door.

They go unnoticed in the dark storage of the supermarket. It’s cold and stilted back here. The irritated buzzing of hideous fluorescent lights above them is unsettling as James slams Steve’s back into a metal shelf. Steve winces.

James gawks at him again, chest heaving like a bull, but his eyes are glassy and moving, searching over Steve’s body in disbelief, but it’s him. It’s Steve. In the flesh. The same pale flesh he remembers oh, so well, that is now reddish and tan from the summer sun. The same eyes, too, like chlorine pools, and lips as pink as punch.

“Please don’t hit me,” Steve pleas, voice soft as though he doesn’t deserve the consideration.

Truth be told, he doesn’t, and James lunges forward, but with his hands cupped around Steve’s cheeks, stealing the blonde’s breath with a squeak as he presses their lips together desperately with closed eyes.

James hadn’t planned on kissing Steve, but here we are…

Steve’s hands find the collar of James’ T-shirt, tightening his fingers around its edge. His eyes close, too. His mouth parts and James tastes him with his tongue.

Steve’s initial shock swallowed by a soft moan, he deepens their kiss, looping his arms around James’ neck as James pulls them closer and cards a hand through golden blonde hair. Steve whimpers against James’ lips and the sound of it, the remembrance of it, shakes his whole body. They’ve always fit so well together like this, slotted in one another’s hold.

_“Um, gentlemen…”_

Their spell broken, Steve, embarrassed, separates from James, leaving the brunet suddenly awashed with a dread of neglect. And it all comes back to him a wave. The downright rage he so trembled with 5 minutes ago resurfaces. He latches a bruising grip onto Steve’s wrist. Steve. Who’s standing there blushing red like a busted teenager on prom night.

The balding store manager huffs at them scornfully.

“We’re sorry,” Steve apologizes.

“Look, I don’t know where you two come from, but here, this is a family store, and this back area is not for customers to sneak off and neck with each other. There’s food back here we got to sell and people got to eat. You understand,” the store manager scolds.

Before Steve’s mouth can form a sound, James drags him off toward the sunlight of the raised high lift door leading to the loading zone.

“Hey! You two can’t go that way! You can’t leave out that back door like that!”

But the warm sun is already touching Steve’s skin and James’ grip grows tighter, angrier, as they reach the congested parking lot.

***

It’s hot as Hades. Despite James turning the air conditioner on full blast.

He hasn’t said a word to Steve since dragging him from the Piggy Wiggly and forcing him into his rental. His sharp eyes haven’t left his window since he yanked Steve back inside and locked the doors. Steve told him a thousand times over he had to get back to work, but James ignored him, just turned the wheel into Greenfield Lake Park and wouldn’t let him go.

Steve could leave. He could easily pull back the lock and jump on out (again), take off running down the street, but he doesn’t. He won’t. James knows it. Steve knows it. So they’ve been here, in this sweltering car, sitting in tense silence for the last 30 minutes.

Steve’s nervous ticks and fidgets and lip-biting has become more frequent. He’s anxious. And the heat isn’t helping his current bout of anxiety.

Good.

James wants him to suffer. To hurt. Kissing in the back of a grocery store be damned.

“Buck—”

“I have a daughter.”

It’s not what James wanted to start with, but it’s what flew out of his mouth first, so he’ll start with that.

Steve stops fidgeting. “You do?”

He turns his head to the fit blonde beside him; eyes cutting deep into him. “Yes.”

Steve’s eyes dart back and forth, thinking, and filling with tears. “She here with you,” he asks with a sad smile.

“No. She’s at summer camp.”

Steve picks at a stubborn thread in the leather of the arm rest. “Can I see a picture…of her?” The quiver in his voice, the hesitation… It aches to ask. To see with his own eyes and know.

James takes his phone from his pocket and opens it with his thumbprint. He scrolls through it a quick beat before handing it over to Steve. James watches as Steve stares down at the picture of an adorable little girl with dark waves of auburn hair, big bright eyes the color of arctic waters, so much like James’ own, and a happy smile that could light a city.

Tears run down Steve’s face and James wants to be ashamed of the bloom of satisfaction it gives him, but he isn’t.

“She’s gorgeous, Bucky,” he says finally, wiping his face with back of his hand. He hands the phone back to James. There are three droplets of salty tears on the screen. James slides the phone back into his pocket. “W-What’s her name?”

“Eulalie.”

James remains stone-faced, but takes a certain amount of petty pride in the stunted look on Steve’s face.

“What?”

“Her name is Eulalie. My daughter’s name is Eulalie,” he tells him again.

He expects it, so it doesn’t hurt as much, but he’s still somewhat taken aback when Steve’s hand slaps hard and true across his cheek!

Steve’s bottom lip quakes; so furious, yet so miserable all at once, in the briefest of moments.“217 W Jones Street. That’s where I work. Take me there. Now.”

“I’m not done talking to you.”

“I think we’ve said all we need to say to one another.”

“Oh, I doubt that, sweetheart.”

“Having a wife and a child is one thing! I’d expect that after all these years, Bucky! But naming your daughter that… I think that’s about the meanest you’ve ever been.”

“I don’t think it comes close to you walking out on me.”

It’s not a low blow, but the truth. Still stings just the same though.

“I had to. And I told you I would if it came to that.”

“Did you _have_ to disappear on me for a decade? Did you _have_ to break my goddamn heart like you did?”

“…No. But we both knew I would. Nothing between us was easy, Bucky. And it wasn’t clean and it wasn’t pretty.”

“No, but I still managed to love you.”

“I love you, too,” Steve defends.

James scoffs, a wryly smile on his skeptical face. “ Yeah, I doubt that. Completely.”

He’s lying. He knows Steve loved him, still does evidently, despite all of the complicated messiness that went on 11 years ago and what’s happening to them now in the front seat of his car. He just wants to be mean. To wound. And he has.

He turns the engine over as Steve cries softly into his hands.

_Congrats, asshole._

***

James has barely put the car in park before Steve bolts. He flies out after him.

Steve’s halfway to the entrance of an official-looking government building— tall and old with a mile of glass windows peeking inside of every floor— when James grabs his arm, pulling him back. He’s still angrier than he’s ever been, but after 11 years of nothing, then suddenly something, he can’t leave things like this. He can’t let him walk away again.

Steve tries to pull out of his hold, tears staining his face, and hands beating against James’ barrel chest as James presses them together. Tighter. “Let me go!”

“I’m not married. I can’t have anyone but you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, baby…” he whispers against Steve’s lips. It’s not the poetry he had in mind, but it’s the important things he wanted to say.

“No! I changed my mind; I hate you. I hate you!”

“I know, sweetheart,” he kisses Steve. “I know.” He kisses him, soft and tender again, hoping for a little give.

Steve’s hands turn from fists to curl around James’ shirt. He missed his smell. His taste. The clutch of his thick arms around him, as though Steve were but a tiny, little thing, and not the hulking specimen he is. James was always so delicate with him when they kissed, and it always broke Steve, made him unguarded and submissive.

So James feels it. The exact moment of Steve’s give. Knows he can’t help it. Not like this. Not when they’re both so raw and livid. Steve opens his mouth a little, and closes his eyes, letting James take possession of him. And James engulfs him; deepening the kiss. His long fingers glide gently through his hair, tilting his head just right.

This is the reunion kiss they should have had at the grocery store. Not the hostile, desperate one under dark lights by dented canned goods.

He licks into Steve’s mouth and gets a sinful moan as a reward.

“Bucky…”

James smiles. “You’re still the only one who calls me that.” It feels so good to hear it in Steve’s velvety voice. He leans their foreheads together.

“I missed you,” Steve’s voice shakes. His hands tighten in James’ shirt.

“I wrote. I emailed you damn near every day for 3 years.”

“I didn’t them,” Steve cries. “I swear to god I would’ve written back if I got them.”

James lifts his head, staring into sad, pleading eyes. He wipes the wet tears from Steve’s face with his thumb. How could he have not seen this face for 11 years? How could he have just…let Steve go? Let him leave with—

_“Well, look what they cat dragged in?”_

Steve breaks apart from James, eyes wide and afraid at the blonde woman watching them.

“Well, this is exactly what I get for finally thinking I’d never see your face again,” she says with a wicked smile. “But here you are. In all your glory in downtown Wilmington. Life is full of surprises. Some good, and some bad I guess. How are you, James?”

James frowns deep and annoyed. He folds his arms over his chest. “Fine. Turned out to be a pretty good day…until now.”

“Same,” she smiles. She turns to Steve. “Your assistant called me. Said you took your hour lunch almost 3 hours ago. Said she couldn’t get ahold of you, and didn’t know where you were. Thought I might know. But, uh…looks like you lost track of time, running into an old friend.”

Steve’s eyes flick up to her, no longer taken aback, but rife with contempt. He always did manage just a tiny bit of courage with her when James was near. “Seems like it.”

“That it does,” she scowls at James. She holds his stare, glaring just as viciously as he is, like two jungle cats squaring off over a zebra carcass.

“James.” Steve squeezes his hand, finally grabbing his attention. “I have to get back to work.”

“I want to see you again,” he says, but his eyes have found her again, shooting daggers, daring her.

Steve looks her way, too, and that fear is there again, ghosting over his face.

Only a tiny bit of courage…

“Tomorrow,” he answers for Steve. He pecks the other man’s lips and saunters around the front of his car, hastily parked at the curb, to the driver’s side.

“Nice seeing you again, James,” she says, waving with a plastic smile on her face.

“You, too, _**Sharon**_ ,” he says with just as much vinegar in his tone.

“I bet.” And it sounds exactly like the threat it is.

“Sharon,” Steve chastises. He rolls his eyes and James watches him head into the building, Sharon following, her arms waving and face purple with rage as he ignores her tirade.

He’s worried a moment. Wonders if he should go inside to make sure Steve’s okay, but Steve is well-versed in the hurricane that is ‘Sharon’. And he chose this. Chose her instead…

James’ cellphone disrupts his thoughts, vibrating in his back pocket. It’s Sam. Fuck.

“You left hours ago,” Sam berates on the other end.

“I know. Something came up.” James climbs into his car.

“What?”

“…Steve. I saw Steve. He lives here.”

“…You okay…?”

James laughs. “No. And yes.” He turns the engine over. “I’ll tell you what happened when I get back from the store.”

“You’re going to the store?”

“Yeah. Forgot the Malbec.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you familiar with my writing will notice I didn't use links. That's mainly due to lethargy, but I will edit in order to add links before I post chapter 2 :)


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